


Something to Fill the Hours

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Back to the Future References, Greg is Sweet, Greg is patient, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Insecure Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft speaks French, No waistcoat required, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pocket Watches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: An enforced weekend off leaves Mycroft at a loose end. On a whim he contacts Gregory Lestrade, and before he knows it, they have plans. Alarmingly, he won't require a waistcoat...





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft was, for want of a better term, restless. The rarity of an evening off had come as a surprise, when his planning meeting had fallen through, and the Prime Minister had sent everyone home. It was the foreign secretary’s fault, his preparation being woefully lacking and preventing any planning at all in their planning meeting. It irked Mycroft, not only for the inefficiency of the botched meeting, but the lost time, which would have to be wrung out of his agenda at some later time, disrupting his already busy schedule. He had spent a lot of time and effort arranging for this man to be Prime Minister, and it wouldn’t do to have him doubt his own power. Therefore, Mycroft was going home, like the obedient minor official he was meant to be.

If he was being honest, of course, it was more than the meeting. Mycroft had no need to work as hard as he had been; despite his position, there were fewer situations that required his personal attention than he strictly allowed to others. It was easier to work, however, than to think; goodness forbid he have an hour to his own devices, to ponder his own circumstances.

And now here he stood, in his own front hall at 8pm on a Friday evening, with nothing to break into his time until Monday morning. The Prime Minister had been explicit; everyone involved in the botched meeting, with the exception of the Foreign Secretary, was to take the weekend off in order to be fresh for the meeting on Monday. Despite his protestations, Anthea had, of course, followed the Prime Minister’s directive, dropping Mycroft home. It wasn’t until he had searched pocket for his work mobile that Mycroft had realised Anthea had also pickpocketed him, removing his secure line to his office. She had her own ideas about his work habits, and clearly she felt that this weekend of leisure was advisable.

Blinking, Mycroft realised he was still standing in his front hall, empty handed. Walking carefully forward, he wondered what to do with the time stretching out in front of him.

He took the stairs to his bedroom hesitantly, reasoning that a bath and a change of clothes would be a start, if nothing else. He was slow, unbuttoning the layers that distanced him from the world, hanging his suit in the wardrobe, adding shirt, socks and pants to the hamper.

As he waited for the bath to finish filling, Mycroft caught sight of himself in the mirror. His naked form was not one in which anyone had shown interest in seeing, and his critical eye picked out the points that would surely have raised objection. Skinny legs, softly rounded belly; his skin, white as snow, marred by the accursed freckles all over. His red hair, darker on his head thankfully than the flame coloured thatch between his pasty thighs, was thinning alarmingly, broadening his forehead significantly. Only his eyes, still as blue as a summer sky, passed muster.

Sighing, Mycroft sank his disappointing body beneath the water, eyes closing as the hot water enveloped him. He relaxed his muscles, allowing his arms to float and his mind likewise. What on earth would occupy him for the next…58 hours? After the absence of his work phone, he knew that Anthea would have taken further measures to ensure his effective blackout for the weekend. While Mycroft could certainly circumvent these measures, a tiny voice in his head wondered, what if he took this time to…something?

His mind entertained the thought, wandering through the possibilities. His cello lay in the practice room, untouched and probably dusty in its bespoke case. He had a theatre room, a formidable collection of films; a library of books; a faster internet connection than MI-5, for that matter, and yet none of these things sparked his interest. Chess, political discussion, Scrabble – though any could hold his attention, they each relied on another participant. Friends, acquaintances, associates. Few, if any, would count themselves amongst Mycroft’s acquaintances, let alone friends. Associates were, by his own design, kept at a careful distance. Only Anthea knew where he lived, and most had only ever encountered Mycroft in a formal, professional capacity.

In the past, this had never occurred to Mycroft as a situation to be regretted. His few hours alone were to be cherished, rather than imposed upon by another.

Now, however, the thought of someone to call upon for some company was strangely appealing. Another presence, quiet and calm, doing nothing in particular. Without being summoned, an image arose in Mycroft’s mind – a kind face, merry dark eyes, strong jaw, silver hair. A brief sensation of calm came over him, before he realised who it was that had elicited such a response. The smile was still on his lips, and he indulged in his memories of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

While they only ever met officially, Mycroft had to admit to himself that their meetings were always a high point. Sherlock had initially been the reason for their appointments, but increasingly, their time had skewed from mainly about Sherlock with some perfunctory pleasantries, to perfunctorily about Sherlock with more discussion filling out the evening. Mycroft had been surprised at the congruency of their interests; the difference in their backgrounds was not the chasm he had imagined. They had spoken easily and there were few, if any awkward moments to punctuate the amiable atmosphere.

With another sigh, Mycroft pulled the plug on both his bath and his memories. He rose, wrapping a robe around himself before padding on bare feet into his bedroom.

As he lifted his coat from the floor where he’d missed the bed earlier, his personal mobile dropped to the floor. Mycroft stared at it for a long time, his mind working. Dare he call…he considered the wisdom of this trail of thought, then poured himself a Scotch, swirling the amber liquid as he turned his phone over in his hand. The Scotch warmed his insides as he sipped, then gave into the compulsion, thumb flying over the keypad before he could think.

 

_Good evening. MH_

Mycroft knew Lestrade had his phone number; whether he would reply was another matter.

He turned to dress while he waited, wanting something to occupy his suddenly shaking hands. Out of sheer mulishness, he chose the most casual items he could find; a polo shirt and chinos, holdovers from a long forgotten casual social event. The sensation of the fabric sliding over his still damp hair was disconcerting; he wore buttoned shirts and pyjamas, never something that slid over his head such as this. It only served to highlight the surreal sense of the evening. As he emerged, settling the collar against his neck, tucking it into his trousers, his phone pinged.

New message. Mycroft froze.

 

_Hi Mycroft. What’s up? Greg_

 

Gregory had responded, Mycroft thought, dazedly. He found himself sitting on his bed, staring at the screen.

 

_I find myself at a loose end. MH_

The blinking ellipsis told Mycroft to expect a reply directly, and he was not disappointed.

 

_So why did you message me, then? Greg_

_I thought perhaps you might also have an evening free of commitments. MH_

_I am committed actually. Greg_

Mycroft experienced a stab of disappointment which was only slightly alleviated by the arrival of a second part.

 

_The match is in desperate need of an audience. Me and my pint are rising to the challenge. Greg_

_Fair enough. Enjoy your evening. MH_

 

Mycroft threw the phone onto the bed, allowing his head to drop. A second later it rose sharply at the insistent ringing of an incoming call. After two beats, Mycroft picked up the phone, looking at the caller ID almost until too late.

“Hello, Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft paused before speaking again. “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?” His heart was beating fast, wondering where this conversation was going. It was a novel experience, given his usual control over the conversations he held.

The amusement in Lestrade’s voice was evident. “I believe you contacted me.” A beat of silence, as Mycroft groped for words, then the detective spoke again. “It must be a boring evening if you’re calling me, Mycroft.”

“Why would that be so?”

“Surely you have other people to call on.” The silence stretched on until Lestrade once again broke it. “Okay, maybe not.” Mycroft could hear him swallow, presumably his beer, before he said, “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I was merely wondering if you too were unoccupied this evening, as I already said.”

“I have the weekend off, maybe we could meet up tomorrow.” Lestrade offered.

Mycroft’s heart pounded, but he replied carefully, “Only if it doesn’t interrupt your plans, Detective Inspector.”

“Nah, nothing important. How about you pick me up around 10, we’ll do something, then lunch.”

“Certainly.”

“Dress casual, if you can, I don’t know what we’ll do yet but I doubt a waistcoat would be necessary.” The amusement was evident once again in Lestrade’s tone.

“Of course.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Good night, Detective Inspector.”

“It’s Greg, actually.”

Mycroft could not countenance the idea of using such a short, abrupt name for the Detective Inspector. He settled on, “Gregory.”

“Close enough. G’night, Mycroft.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft slept as well as he ever did, and woke early on Saturday, hours and hours before he was due to meet Gregory. He filled some of that time on the treadmill, showering and shaving, reading the newspapers; still, he found himself with more than enough time to dress for his meeting with Gregory. After his run and shower, he’d dressed as he always did – suit, shirt, tie, though without the waistcoat. A voice in the back of his mind, though, pointed out that although he was strictly speaking following Gregory’s dress code by leaving off his waistcoat, the DI surely meant he needed a more drastic change. And so it was that Mycroft Holmes stood in socks and pants before his wardrobe at 9am on a Saturday morning.

Despite the rows of suits, in every shade from black to pale grey, every level of formality from tuxedo to country linen suits, he had nothing to wear.

Resignedly, Mycroft entered the dressing room, passing his rows of waistcoats until he came to a small section in one corner, the same area in which he’d found last night’s polo shirt and chinos. His workout gear was beside it, but this area was the least used of all his wardrobe – casual wear. His tailor insisted on him having some ‘decent clothes to relax in, Mr. Holmes,’ even though he almost never wore any of it. The polo shirt and chinos may have been appropriate for staying in last night but there was no way Mycroft would select such items to leave the house.

He stared for several moments before selecting a pair of trousers, navy blue and certainly never worn. They were tailored, of course, but not like his suits. The line was more relaxed, a slimmer cut than any of his formal wear, and he resigned himself to the matching blazer. Certainly more casual than any of his suits, but not so relaxed as to be overly uncomfortable.

Mycroft hesitated over the shoes before selecting handmade caramel brogues. Finally he turned to his shirts, ignoring the temptation of his braces, sleeve garters and tie pins. There would be no tie today – instead he chose a white shirt, his mind exhausted after only a few moments of effort. He wasn’t used to considering his clothing choices so carefully, and a small voice suggested that for some reason, it mattered far more today than it usually did. He ignored it and selected a wrist watch. It was a poor replacement for his pocket watch, but with no waistcoat, there was nowhere for it to sit.

As though by design, his mobile phone chimed. Mycroft glanced at the screen, visible where he had laid it on the padded bench.

 

_See you soon. No waistcoat, remember. Greg_

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, not realising he was grinning until he had replied.

 

_My memory is clear, thank you. My car will arrive at your flat in 37 minutes. Please be ready. MH_

 

Tucking his phone in his blazer pocket, Mycroft sat to tie the laces of his shoes, fastening his watch before standing to examine his reflection. The full length mirror showed someone quite alien, Mycroft thought to himself. The suit fit well, of course – his weight had been quite consistent since he had begun running again – and he was surprised to see how well the casual line of the blazer suited him. Not completely terrible, then. Certainly better than the polo shirt option.

He shook off the tremble of anxiety, ensuring his hair was in place before turning to make his way downstairs. Now that he was ready to go, it was odd not to have his work mobile, or to be considering his strategy for the days’ meetings, as was his habit. Instead, he wondered what Gregory had decided upon for their day. Should it be terrible he could always beg off – there had been no mention of what he had (or did not have) planned for the remainder of the weekend. Gregory would probably assume today was a rare day off and that Mycroft would be working tomorrow. That would suffice as his exit strategy, should the activities be unbearable.

The doorbell rang, breaking Mycroft out of his reverie. He took a deep breath, looking around for his umbrella before remembering he would not need it today. With a stubborn clench of his jaw, he picked it up anyway. He could leave it in the car if need be, but there were already enough differences in his day today. This one thing would stay the same.

+++

Pulling up outside Gregory’s flat, Mycroft swallowed hard. Despite the lengthy conversations he had shared in the past, this was a definitively social occasion, without the excuse of Sherlock to hide behind. His driver offered to go and collect the waiting Detective, but Mycroft declined, instead making his way up the three flights of stairs to the Detective’s flat.  Reaching for his pocket watch, Mycroft checked himself, glancing at his wrist, instead. He waited fifteen seconds, knocking at 9.59.50. As he had anticipated, it took Gregory ten seconds to come to the door, opening it at precisely ten o’clock.

“Good morning, Gregory.” Mycroft offered, smiling a politician’s smile. It faltered a little when Gregory’s own smile was so sincere – was he really so glad to see Mycroft? Automatically Mycroft swept his eyes down and up, taking in Gregory’s jeans (dark blue, well fitting), white shirt (good juxtaposition to the tan), and black leather jacket (well-worn but not shabby).

“Hi, Mycroft. Wow, you look…far more casual than I’ve ever seen you.” Gregory greeted him, his own eyes giving Mycroft a once over. Mycroft felt his cheeks heat, the usual panicky thoughts running riot through his head at the examination. Comparing their wardrobes, he and Gregory had dressed at an acceptably similar level of formality. There was nothing out of place in his ensemble. He pushed the thoughts aside, focussing instead on the conversation in which he was expected to take part.

“You did say a waistcoat was inappropriate,” said Mycroft. “I wasn’t sure what you had in mind.” He could hear the defensive tone in his voice and cursed it.

“Neither did I, at the time.” Gregory replied. He grinned. “But I can’t think of anything I might come up with that would require a waistcoat, so it was a safe bet.”

“Quite,” said Mycroft, for want of something better. His waistcoat performed the vital task of concealing the revolting softness of his stomach, a detail Gregory did not need to know. “Shall we proceed with our morning, then?”

“Sure. Hang on-” Gregory ducked inside, returning with his keys before pulling the door closed behind him. “Is your car waiting?”

“Of course,” answered Mycroft.

“We could actually walk, it’s not that far, unless you’d prefer to take the car. Or there’s some security reason or something.”

Mycroft considered. With the CCTV around the city, there was no need for him to have a physical presence following him. He could tell Gregory they needed to take the car, however it was clear Gregory had chosen the location based on its proximity, so the least Mycroft could do was allow his plans to unfold unhindered.

“Walking would be fine.” Mycroft looked at the sky – cloudy, though it wasn’t particularly cold. “If it’s not too far, I will leave my umbrella in the car.” He did so, sending his driver home in the process. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to Gregory. “Let’s go, then, shall we?”

“This way.” Gregory indicated left, and they began to walk together. It was unusual for Mycroft to walk any distance outside, and he found the cool air and ambient noise distracting. They were strolling, for want of a better term. Gregory wasn’t in a hurry – they evidently did not have an appointment – so Mycroft matched his stride. Rather than trying to deduce where they were headed based on their direction and the type of activity Gregory might chose, Mycroft made a conscious decision not to think about it. He couldn’t remember when he had last been surprised by events. Perhaps today was the day for it.

They walked in silence, Mycroft sneaking little glances at Gregory every now and again under the guise of looking at their surroundings. For a politician, he was having immense trouble finding something with which to open their conversation. Small talk was out of the question, but they usually started by talking about Sherlock. Mycroft didn’t want Gregory to think his brother was the only reason he was here; in truth, Sherlock had no crossed his mind since yesterday.

As he thought, they turned several corners, and Mycroft was startled to feel Gregory’s hand on his shoulder blade, or lower back, or elbow as he caught Mycroft’s attention, directing him. It was distracting enough that when he did come back to himself after the last corner, Mycroft realised he didn’t immediately know where they were. It was a small, quiet street, one side open to the park (he didn’t even know which one, for goodness’ sake), the other featuring a row of modest terraced houses.

Gregory stopped in front of one, looking at Mycroft in amusement before he changed his mind, crossing the road (hand on lower back again, Mycroft registered). They sat on a park bench, facing the green trees, the gentle breeze on his face.

Mycroft waited for Gregory to speak.

“We’ve been walking for almost fifteen minutes and you haven’t said a word,” Gregory started. It wasn’t accusatory, more a statement of fact. Gregory looked like he had something more he wanted to say, so rather than interrupt him, Mycroft nodded. Gregory continued, “When we spoke last night you sounded like you wanted to do something. With me.”

It didn’t take Mycroft’s deductive skills to see Gregory was nervous. The self-conscious half smile was adorable, Mycroft thought absently. Shaking himself, he spoke. “I did.”

“You did?”

Mycroft corrected himself. “I do.” He considered the implication of Gregory’s first statement. “I unexpectedly have the weekend with no commitments. I needed something to fill the hours until Monday. When I considered the possibilities,” he hesitated, “I ended up texting you.” Gregory looked surprised and almost…offended. It wasn’t the most flattering reasoning, Mycroft admitted to himself. He changed direction slightly. “As for our earlier silence, I’m not used to socialising with…people.”

It took a moment for Gregory to respond. “Isn’t that what you do?”

“Not with people I like.” Mycroft shot back without thinking. At Gregory’s raised eyebrow, he pressed his lips together. He didn’t regret his admission, per se, but he had no idea how to proceed. Mycroft felt his heart beat faster, his breathing come a little more rapidly. He hadn’t meant to throw it out there, his attraction to Gregory; what if this was simply a friendly gesture? Oh God, what if this was pity? Gregory might feel sorry for him, after his pathetic attempt to arrange a meeting last night. Mycroft sat in agony, his face a mask as he waited for Gregory’s response.

After a beat, Gregory’s face relaxed into a smile. “Okay then.” Mycroft’s heart slowed, and he felt his shoulders relaxed, too. Gregory leaned forward infinitesimally, his smile warm and encouraging. “For the record, I like you too.”

Mycroft nodded, resigning himself to the elevated heartbeat. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the total disaster it had threatened to become.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For ease of reading, all dialogue appears in English. When it's in squiggly brackets, they're actually speaking French.  
> "This is spoken English."  
> "{This is spoken French.}"

Mycroft took a deep breath, relishing the moment. His eyes were locked with Gregory’s, memorising the exact shade of chocolate in which he was drowning. He would be embarrassed by such a blatant show on his behalf except that Gregory appeared to be as lost as he. Neither moved for one, two, three breaths, until Gregory finally cleared his throat.

“Good. Well. Should we…” he waved his arm vaguely toward the other side of the street.

Mycroft nodded, pulling his eyes away with some effort. He smiled hesitantly before standing, ready to follow Gregory to whatever it was he had planned. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” Mycroft asked, making an effort at conversation despite the short distance they had to walk.

“Nope.” The reply was clear and amused. “We’re here, anyway.” He stopped in front of a door no different from its neighbours apart from the large, gold cog fixed to the front. Gregory knocked, sending a quick grin to Mycroft as they waited. Mycroft returned the smile, feeling warmth stir inside him at the rare show of affection. It was unusual indeed for anyone to direct positive emotion his way. Gregory was at ease now, his shoulders relaxed, the slight shifting of his weight showing his anticipation. Mycroft turned his attention back to the door as it swung open. The man who beamed at them was shorter than both, his wrinkled face and white hair placing him in his seventies, at least.

“ _Grégoire_!” he exclaimed in delight, the French flowing easily from his lips. “{I was so glad to take your call last night!}” Another smile bloomed on Mycroft’s face as Gregory shot a glance his way. Another person who called him Gregory, Mycroft noticed. There was obvious affection between the two as they embraced before Gregory stood back to allow Mycroft inside. He spoke English, and Mycroft wondered if it was for his sake.

“Grand-pere, this is Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, my grandfather, Alexandre Lestrade.”

“{Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lestrade. Thank you for having me.}” Mycroft spoke French in deference to his host. Gregory did not look in the least surprised at Mycroft’s fluency, though Alexandre raised an eyebrow.

“{Of course. Any friend of my grandson is welcome. Come in, come in.}” The old man seemed pleased to be speaking in French, clearly his native language, and he waved them inside. They walked past the neat sitting room to a kitchen-slash-sunroom. Mycroft and Gregory were ushered into seats as their host made tea.

“He makes tea like an Englishman now,” Gregory said, loud enough for his grandfather to hear.

“{Of course I do, you rude boy.}” Alexandre turned to Mycroft. “{I do not drink English tea, but that doesn’t stop me from making it.}”

Mycroft was fascinated by the easy slip between French and English. It brought back a rush of memories from his own childhood, sitting in the kitchen with his own Grand-mere, sipping on ill-gotten tea and sweet biscuits as she whispered to him in French.

“{You speak excellent French, Mr. Holmes.}”

“{Please, call me Mycroft. My grandmother was French. She spoke to us only in French until she passed away.}” He smiled a little at the memories. “{This is very familiar, actually. She didn’t drink English tea, either.}”

“I bet she had a cafetiere like this, right?” Gregory asked in English. “Grand-pere has had this for as long as I can remember.”

“Yes, it’s exactly the same,” Mycroft replied, switching automatically to answer in the same language. He looked at the glass and metal, extending one finger to touch it before the hot glass reminded him of its purpose. He shook his hand, throwing a faux dirty look at Gregory, who was chuckling a little at his discomfort.

“{Thank you,}” Mycroft thanked Alexandre as he served tea to his guests before pouring himself coffee.

As they sipped, Gregory made a face. “{It will do, I suppose,}” he said to Alexandre, though the tone made it clear he was teasing.

“{If you don’t like it, don’t drink it,}” came the immediate reply, both men smiling at the exchange. Mycroft felt oddly privileged to be witness to such a close relationship. None of his family were this comfortable with each other. For the first time in a long time, Mycroft missed his Grand-mere and their whispered conversations in the kitchen.

“{So Mycroft, Gregory tells me you are interested in watches,}” Alexandre addressed Mycroft.

With a startled glance at Gregory ( _how did he know that?_ ) Mycroft replied, “{Yes, I am. I often wear a pocket watch, but without a waistcoat…}” he shrugged, the Gaelic move coming naturally with the expressive language.

“{I believe Gregory mentioned it because I have quite a collection. I used to work for Patek Phillipe,}” Alexandre explained, the wrinkles in his face deepening as he smiled at Mycroft’s expression.

“{You were a watchmaker for Patek Phillipe?”} Mycroft repeated in disbelief. “{Incredible.}” He felt himself put down his teacup, leaning forward as he looked at the old man with a new interest. “{My pocket watch is an original Usher & Cole. It was my grandfathers’. I would very much like to own a Patek Phillipe at some point in my life.}”

“{I have a collection if you would like to see it,}” Alexandre offered. “{I still do some work sometimes, fixing watches. I am building a watch for Gregory but he keeps adding complications.}” This last comment was aimed at Gregory, who had been sitting back, allowing the men to talk. Mycroft looked over at him as he made a noise of dissent.

“{Pretty sure I’d be happy with something that told the time, grandfather. You’re the one that thinks I should be able to know the phases of the moon or whatever.}” He turned to Mycroft. “{He’s been working on it since I was 18.}”

Mycroft smiled at him, flattered to be drawn into their banter. “{Surely not, Gregory.}”

“Anyway,” Gregory replied, deliberately in English, “let’s go and look at the watches, shall we? Grand-pere can tell you the story about when Prince Philip came personally to choose a watch.”

They all stood, Alexandre beginning the story in rapid French before they had even left the kitchen. Mycroft was concentrating on the story but he was also very aware of Gregory behind him as they made their way up the stairs to the workshop. This was obviously the purpose of the visit, the old man’s animated conversation directed at Mycroft. Mycroft and Alexandre pored over watches and clocks, discussing the benefits and drawbacks to self-winding watches. Mycroft found the conversation fascinating.

At one point he looked up, blinking from the bright spotlight to the regular room light. Gregory was sitting in an armchair in the corner, watching the two men discuss the intricacies of watchmaking. A fleeting sense of guilt that he was abandoning Gregory was soothed by the encouraging smile Gregory offered him. Mycroft nodded before turning back, asking Alexandre to repeat what he’d missed.

+++

The conversation was captivating, but Mycroft could see the old man was beginning to tire. “{Perhaps we could continue this conversation at a later time,}” he suggested tactfully, glancing at Gregory as Alexandre leaned against the stool.

Gregory stood immediately, taking the old man’s elbow and helping him to the chair. They spoke in low voices, Gregory softly insistent. Finally, Alexandre capitulated, and Gregory came to speak to Mycroft.

“He’s exhausted. I’ve convinced him to have a rest but he’s insisting he’s okay to go down the stairs on his own.”

Mycroft could see the awkward request before Gregory could ask it, and he reached out, placing one hand on Gregory’s arm before he could speak. The solid muscle and bone beneath his fingers was diverting, but, with a reassuring look, Mycroft stepped around Gregory to speak to Alexandre.

“{I would be honoured if you would allow me to make you an English tea in thanks for your hospitality,}” Mycroft said. “{Perhaps I can change your mind about our national beverage? I hope you and Gregory wouldn’t mind if I used your kitchen while you catch up with each other.}”

The look Alexandre pinned on him told Mycroft the old man knew exactly what he was doing, and that he was grateful for the ruse. “{Of course, Mycroft. That would be most kind of you.}”

Mycroft turned to Gregory, nodding before leaving the two upstairs while he returned to the kitchen. He made up the tea tray, taking his time as he heard Gregory helping Alexandre down the stairs. Settling a single cup and saucer, sugar and milk and more of the biscuits he had served earlier, Mycroft waited for the kettle to boil. He was leaning against the table when Gregory walked in.

“Thank you,” Gregory said quietly. “That was very kind of you.”

Mycroft felt himself flush at the compliment. “{No problem,}” he replied in French, flustered at both the words and his reaction to them. The kettle boiled, saving him from the suddenly intense moment. He busied himself fixing the tea, saying hesitantly, in deliberate English, “I’ve just made it for one, unless…”

“No, that’s fine,” Gregory reassured him. “We should probably go, anyway. Give him some quiet.”

Mycroft nodded, following Gregory with the tray into the front sitting room. Alexandre was settled on the sofa, a side table nearby. Mycroft poured his tea, placing it and the tray within easy reach.

“We’re going to go, grand-pere,” Gregory told him. “Give you some peace.”

“{Nonsense,}” Alexandre protested, though his hand shook as he picked up the teacup. Gregory waited, then leaned in to kiss both cheeks, murmuring in the old man’s ear before straightening.

Mycroft stepped forward, offering his hand as he said, “{I had a most enjoyable time today. Thank you so much for sharing your knowledge with me.}”

The hand which grasped his was still firm despite the slight tremor. “{Anytime, young man. It’s wonderful to talk about my work with someone who still appreciates the art.}”

“{I’ll give you a call later, grandfather,}” Gregory said before he led Mycroft outside. As the door closed behind them, the polished cog glinting in the light, they looked at each other. Mycroft let out an explosive breath which turned into a laugh as he and Gregory started walking slowly down the street.

“Let’s walk in the park,” Gregory said, and Mycroft changed direction without complaint. There was nobody around, the clouds still heavy overhead. By mutual agreement they stopped on a small bridge over a pond, leaning on the railing.

“That was,” Mycroft considered carefully, “remarkable.” He turned to look at Gregory. “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you,” Gregory said, still leaning on his elbows against the fence. “Grand-pere moved over here when my Grand-mere passed away. I lived with him for a while, but I don’t see him as often as I’d like.” He smiled a bit, flicking his eyes up to Mycroft. A shot of awareness flew through Mycroft at the eye contact. “And I don’t have the knowledge or interest in watches.”

“You do speak French, though,” Mycroft pointed out.

“{True,}” Gregory replied in French. “{But I don’t speak watches, and that’s what he loves.}”

“We’ve never spoken about our families,” Mycroft said. “He is obviously important to you.”

Gregory shrugged, downplaying the comment. “It never came up. You and I talked about a lot of things, but never ourselves.”

“True.” Mycroft had to concede the point. They had talked about books they had read, but not why they had read them; movies, drinks, travel, politics – but never their families, childhoods or many personal topics at all.

“How did you know about my interest in horology?” Mycroft asked. “I’m not sure we’ve ever discussed it.”

“Sherlock,” replied Gregory. “He said something once that stuck with me for some reason. I thought at the time you and Grand-pere might get along, and last night when I was thinking about what we might do, I remembered it.”

“A good decision, I’d say,” Mycroft said. “I would very much like to see Alexandre again.”

“He’d love that,” Gregory replied. He was looking down into the water now, the perfect smoothness of the surface reflecting the image of the bridge and the silver head peering over the railing. Mycroft could see part of the image, and he wondered what Gregory was thinking about as he stared at himself.

“You worry about him,” said Mycroft.

“{Of course,}” Gregory replied, the half-smile softening the anxious truth behind the statement.

They stood in silence and Mycroft marvelled at the difference. This morning the silence had been undercut with the sounds of the street; here the empty park shielded them from all but the barest murmur. He had been lost in his own mind this morning, anxious about the day and the expectations on both sides. Now, as he and Gregory stood in the quiet with the words and actions of the day to soften the shards of anxiety, he was much calmer.

Turning, Mycroft stood beside Gregory, elbows resting on the same railing. A single duck was making its way across the pond, the ripples spreading out across the surface, shattering the perfect image. The two men looked down at the ripples on the pond and again, Mycroft wondered what Gregory was thinking about. Did he have further plans for their day? Glancing at his watch, Mycroft could see it was past 2pm. While he wasn’t particularly hungry, it was probable that Gregory would need to eat.

“Might I buy you lunch, Gregory?” Mycroft offered, his voice quiet over the water. Gregory did not move for a moment, eyes still fixed on the pond below. Finally, he turned his head, offering a slow smile. Mycroft’s heart fluttered. “That would be great,” he said.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Unusual though it is, I am not precisely certain of our location.”

His admission made Gregory’s smile broaden. “Come on,” the Detective said, standing up and tugging on Mycroft’s elbow, “there’s a fancy pub this way. Best of both worlds.”


	4. Chapter 4

As they walked through the park, Mycroft eyed the sky. “It might be best for my driver to pick us up after we eat,” he said. “I fear the rain will not hold out much longer.” As he spoke, the first few raindrops began to fall.

“It’s not far,” Gregory said, grinning at Mycroft. “Run!”

Before he could react, Greg’s hand slipped into his and tugged him forward. Mycroft had no time to register the sensation of Greg’s fingers sliding past his own. They started running through the park as the rain fell, Gregory laughing for some reason, Mycroft grateful he ran so often at home. The pub faced the park on the opposite side, and they crossed the street as the heavy rain became a solid downpour.

Breathlessly Gregory threw himself against the stone wall, the canopy protecting them from the sheets of water falling from the sky. Mycroft stood beside him, also leaning on the wall, breathing hard at the unexpected exertion. It took a few moments to catch their breath, in which Mycroft realised they were still holding hands. He froze, not knowing what to do. Should he remove his hand, or would that imply that he didn’t want to touch Gregory? Would it be better-

His quandary was resolved when Gregory gave his fingers a quick squeeze and let them go, running his hand over his head to dislodge any stray droplets of water, shaking out his jacket. “Well we didn’t plan that so well,” Gregory said, still grinning. The endorphins must have kicked in, Mycroft realised, as a rush of elation flowed through him too.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “I will ask my driver to collect us after our meal.”

“If it’s still raining,” qualified Gregory before opening the door for Mycroft. They were both wet, but not overly so. Once they’d been seated and the warmth of the air had begun to warm them, Mycroft could tell they would dry enough while they were here.

Lunch was mainly spent comparing their experiences growing up with French grandparents, a safe topic that did not involve discussion of their relationship or Sherlock or work. It was a small improvement on their professional meetings. Mycroft was painfully aware of avoiding these topics, and he wondered if Gregory could feel the same guardedness to their conversation. While they were now talking about more personal memories, the easy camaraderie they usually shared was missing as both chose their words with particular care. The food was excellent – Mycroft ordered a starter, Gregory a main – and by the time they had finished eating the topic of their respective childhoods was well and truly exhausted. Mycroft was relieved when Gregory declined the tentative offer of dessert – perhaps a new environment would ease their conversation somewhat.

“Why don’t you call you driver while I see to this?” Gregory suggested, smiling at the waiter who’d brought…

“That’s not a bill, it’s a receipt,” said Gregory blankly. He looked from the waiter to Mycroft. “You paid already? When did you do that?”

“I gave Anthony my card as we entered,” Mycroft explained, picking up his card from the billfold. He smiled thanks at the embarrassed looking Anthony, then turned to Gregory, who looked put out. “I did offer to take you to lunch, if you recall.” He pulled out his phone and sent a short message to his driver. Earlier the details of their location had been sent to Anthea, ensuring the car would be close. “Are you ready, Gregory?”

As they walked out the rain had more or less stopped. Mycroft paused, unsure what might happen next. Had Gregory planned more to their afternoon? Were they done? The idea made him unhappy, for some reason, and he wondered if Gregory would be amenable to…something. He would need to suggest an activity. Before he could, Gregory saw the car and touched his shoulder, pointing past him and waving at the driver.

“Car’s here,” said Gregory, and they both settled in the backseat. “So what now?” he asked bluntly. “Do you have plans? You said you have the weekend free, but I assume you have to work tomorrow.”

“No,” Mycroft replied, almost choking on the word. Why was that so hard to admit to? “I have no plans.”

Gregory’s eyebrows rose, and he nodded to himself. “Okay. Well, did you want to do something tomorrow, then?”

Mycroft studied his face, wondering what the complex raft of emotions meant. Did Gregory want him to say yes? Or no? Was it Mycroft’s imagination or was there the tiniest bit of hope in Gregory’s voice that Mycroft might suggest a further activity for this evening?

“Did you have something in mind?” Mycroft asked, then kicked himself. He had not committed either way, passing the onus back onto Gregory. “I would be pleased to meet with you tomorrow,” he qualified.

Gregory’s face broke into a smile. “I’d…yeah. I’d really like that.” He looked at Mycroft, a shy, half-glance, adding, “Was there something you’d like to do?”

Mycroft considered. To his alarm, his mind offered an image of him cradling Gregory’s face, pressing their lips together, Gregory’s hands clinging to the back of his shirt. He shook his head, clearing his head before blurting, “I have an extensive collection of films. Perhaps you’d like to join me?” With one hand, he indicated the weather. Although the rain had technically stopped, it looked as though it would begin again any minute. “If the weather remains like this we would be best to choose an indoor pastime.”

“True,” Gregory replied. He looked out of the window, then frowned. “We haven’t moved. Why haven’t we moved?”

Mycroft looked blankly at him then closed his eyes in embarrassment. “My sincerest apologies. I have not directed the driver, and he would not interrupt us to ask.”

As he reached for the intercom, Gregory’s hand settled over his. “Since it’s not raining right now, why don’t we walk? We could take your umbrella and you could meet the driver at my flat.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft agreed, hand burning with Gregory’s touch. He pushed the intercom, explained to the driver what they intended to do, and joined Gregory once more on the street, his umbrella firmly in hand. “Shall we?”

They cut through the park again, past Alexandre’s door before continuing towards Gregory’s flat. The silence this time was more comfortable, with an air of expectation that Mycroft could not quite pin down. He knew his heart was beating slightly faster, and his own furtive glances at Gregory had been met at least once by Gregory’s own eyes. There were barely any other people around, yet they walked close enough that shoulders brushed on every other step.

When they arrived at Gregory’s flat, Mycroft’s car was waiting discreetly up the block. They stood together, facing each other. Mycroft could feel himself swaying, his body pulling towards Gregory’s without effort. Gregory had thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans, hunching his shoulders.

“I had a good time today,” Gregory said, that adorable smile making another appearance.

“As did I,” Mycroft replied. All he needed to do now was say good-bye, take his leave until tomorrow. He opened his mouth, fully intending to do so, but what he heard himself say was, “It’s still early. We could begin this evening, if you like?” Horrified at his own forwardness, Mycroft closed his eyes, fingers gripping the handle of his umbrella to stem the wave of mortification. As he was considering how to extract himself with the least loss of dignity, Mycroft felt rough fingers close over the back of his hand, pressing into the umbrella. His eyes flew open and Mycroft realised Gregory was leaning in, his breath tickling Mycroft’s ear as he spoke.

“Sounds great,” Gregory pulled back, grinning at Mycroft.

In disbelief, Mycroft returned the smile, before leading the way to his car. It seemed their day was going to continue, then. Surely that meant…something. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to seriously believe Gregory wanted more than friendship, and even that at the outside. It wasn’t pity, he was fairly sure, and the evidence of a lifetime told him that the possibility of Gregory finding him attractive was negligible. Gregory appeared to enjoy his company, and he had been thoughtful enough to arrange their conversation with Alexandre.

The earlier scene on the bench, when Gregory had said, “I like you, too,” played in Mycroft’s mind. Friendship, then. A few minor points arose, slightly out of synch with the idea – the light touches as they walked, his hand taken as they ran through the rain, breath against his ear as Gregory spoke. Fortunately Mycroft’s infinitely logical brain rationalised each and every one of these, leaving him somewhat resigned to the knowledge that Gregory Lestrade was interested in him as a friend.

Without thinking about it he looked over at Gregory who watched as the rain once again fell outside. Mycroft took the opportunity to study Gregory, superimposing his memory of the half-smile, the wide grin, the affectionate look he bestowed on Alexandre. He felt the same pull in his stomach as he’d experienced earlier, the same warmth in his blood. With a sigh, Mycroft acknowledged what he’d suspected for a while. Despite Gregory’s obvious preference for a platonic friendship, Mycroft wanted more.


	5. Chapter 5

To Mycroft, the security surrounding his flat was routine, hardly worth a thought. It had been a long time since somebody new had seen the security measures, and it wasn’t until Gregory chuckled disbelievingly Mycroft remembered how excessive it often appeared to other people.

“Security is important,” Mycroft murmured, opening the door from the vestibule into the hall. He shed his coat, dropping keys and his umbrella in their prescribed places. “May I take your jacket?” he asked of Gregory, who handed it over, adding his own keys and wallet to the shallow dish in which Mycroft kept his.

“Wow,” Gregory said, looking around.

Mycroft led the way into the kitchen, grateful Gregory did not make a fuss about the opulence of his residence. In truth, it was a Government building, chosen more for its ease of defence and location rather than any personal preference on Mycroft’s behalf.

“Tea?” Mycroft asked, and Gregory nodded. He leaned against the bench as Mycroft assembled the tea tray, boiling the kettle before asking for Gregory’s tea preference.

“Whatever you like will be fine,” Gregory smiled.

Mycroft selected the nearest canister, his favoured blend. Generally he found the act of making tea to be relaxing, but today he was nervous, wondering what the afternoon would bring.

“May I show you to the theatre?” Mycroft asked, knowing the tea would take a few moments to steep.

“Sure,” came the reply, and they moved through a short hallway and into the theatre. As Gregory looked around the well-appointed room, Mycroft pulled up the library of digital files.

“Here,” he said, passing Gregory the remote control. Their fingers brushed and he clamped down the shiver that began with the brief contact. “Please choose anything you please. I’ll collect the tea.” He left Gregory flicking through his collection, a little hesitant at such exposure of his personal preferences. A short hunt found a packet of biscuits to add to the tray and Mycroft carried it through, depositing it on the side table as Gregory continued to scroll through the library.

“There’s bloody everything here,” Gregory said, flicking a glance at Mycroft. “You haven’t seen all these, have you?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Not all of them,” he admitted. “Some were suggestions.” Anthea had definite ideas about his life, including her opinion of his ignorance when it came to popular culture.

“Well, what do you want to watch?” Gregory asked.

To his mortification, Mycroft answered automatically, his attention on the tea service. “Something with you.” He cleared his throat, turning his flaming face away. “Whatever you would like to see is fine, Gregory.” Having finished the tea, he passed a mug to Gregory. Cups and saucers would be awkward in such a scenario.

“I’ll pick something I haven’t seen, then. So it’ll be new for us both, or if you’ve seen it, you can tell me all the behind the scenes stuff that’s on the commentaries.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why do you assume I’d watch the commentaries?” Gregory’s look would rival one of Sherlock’s for ‘oh, please.’ “Fair enough,” replied Mycroft. He did enjoy watching the commentaries, learning about the background research and influences of each film. “What are we watching, then?”

Gregory grinned, settling into one of the recliners. “Come and see.”

Ignoring the double entendre, Mycroft sat himself in the seat beside Gregory, bringing the biscuits to the arm between them. “Mmmm, gingernuts, thanks.” He selected a title and the screen darkened before the sound of clocks ticking filled the room, background to the opening scene.

“I’ve never seen this,” Mycroft admitted, watching the camera pan slowly over a selection of alarm clocks.

“I’ve seen part of it,” Gregory said, “but never the whole trilogy.” He grinned at Mycroft. “Michael J Fox is awesome in this. We’ve got no plans, right?”

“Correct,” Mycroft replied, his heart thumping. Three movies in a row, then. His mind calculated the time it would take, the time it would finish…before he could panic, or get too lost in the uncertainty, Mycroft stopped himself. He would sit and enjoy this film, and the next, and the next. If not for the cinematic qualities, then for the company.

+++

Four hours later, Mycroft rolled his neck, shifting as the credits rolled on the second film.

“Well?” Gregory asked.

“Ignoring the scientific inaccuracies,” Mycroft began, deliberately waiting for Gregory’s face to reproach him before continuing, “it was surprisingly entertaining.”

“So you don’t think time travel is possible?” Gregory asked.

“Not by a man incapable of pronouncing a basic numeric value incorrectly,” Mycroft retorted. He’d snorted inelegantly when Doc Brown told Marty he needed ‘one point twenty one jigawatts’ of power to run the flux capacitor. Gregory had chuckled, deep and rich in response.

“Was there no scientific consultation…” Mycroft trailed off, exaggerating his very real disappointment in the scientific accuracy for the film. He wasn’t sure how serious Gregory was in his question – of course he had a detailed and well supported opinion about the likelihood of time travel – so he said, “I’m not sure it’s possible given our current technological capacity.”

“Fair enough,” Gregory replied with a smile that said he knew Mycroft had restrained himself. “I’ve got to agree. I think it’s a Time Lord thing.”

Mycroft looked at him in exasperation. “Please don’t tell me you seriously believe the Time Lords are the only beings in the universe capable of time travel.” He assumed his most supercilious expression. “Everyone knows Time Agents have the technology, Gregory.”

The delighted laughter, silver head thrown back, made Mycroft shiver in delight. He was rarely humorous, but it seemed Gregory was appreciative. Thank God for Sherlock’s obsession with Doctor Who during his younger years; of all the popular culture he could have chosen, at least it was palatable to Mycroft, who had been the sounding board for Sherlock’s theories about time travel and the existence of alien life in general. It had been the one thing Mycroft’d kept up with as an adult, secretly enjoying the Christmas specials, thrilling at the fiftieth anniversary special and its nods to the original series.

“I gather you’re a fan, then,” Gregory said, picking up the empty tea mugs as he stretched.

Mycroft couldn’t help but slide his gaze down the line of muscle displayed as Gregory shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders under the cotton of his shirt. When he turned the fabric pulled a little out of his waistband, and Mycroft was a beat late drawing his eyes up to Gregory’s. The knowing grin told him his attention had not gone unnoticed.

“I do enjoy Doctor Who,” Mycroft replied, hoping to bring the conversation back on track. He stood, intending to help Gregory with the tea tray.

Where most people would step back, Gregory stood his ground, keeping them standing toe to toe. He leaned forward and Mycroft caught his breath, eyes dropping to Gregory’s mouth as one arm reached around…and the tea mugs were deposited on the tray behind him. For a long moment, agonising and delicious, Gregory stood close, his eyes wandering over Mycroft’s face. His breath, warm and tea-scented, brushed along Mycroft’s cheeks. His muscles were frozen, his mind trying to decide if he should lean in, just a few centimetres and he could press his lips to Gregory’s…the slow smile pulling at Gregory’s mouth told Mycroft that his thoughts were as audible as if he’d spoken aloud.

“The biscuits were good,” Gregory said, his voice intimate, “but I’d be up for something more substantial. Should we order something in?”

“Yes,” Mycroft croaked. He cleared his throat, stepping back into the table, stumbling around it and only just regaining his balance with the help of Gregory. Strong fingers had grabbed at his arm and he’d clutched at them as his feet shuffled, finally getting purchase under him. “Yes,” Mycroft repeated, knowing his hot face would be the bright red of all gingers. “Is there a cuisine you’d prefer?”

“What do you feel like?” Gregory countered.

Mycroft stared, considering the question. “There is an excellent Indian establishment in the next street,” he suggested tentatively. “Khusboo. I’m quite partial to their Saag Chicken.”

“Great idea,” Gregory approved. “Do you want to call them? I’ll just duck out to the loo.”

“Of course, first on the right,” Mycroft said. “What would you like?”

“Lamb korma, naan, rice,” Gregory replied. “Hot as you like, too.”

Mycroft nodded. “Certainly.”

He waited until Gregory had left the room before sitting down heavily, breathing deeply for a moment. There was no hiding from it now, and while Gregory clearly relished the anticipation now swirling around them, it made Mycroft feel nauseated and shaky. He disliked flexible scenarios and this was the ultimate example. There was only one thing for it – take control of as many variables as possible. First – ordering their meal. Mycroft took their tea tray into the kitchen, picking up the landline to dial the Khusboo. He ordered his usual, plus Gregory’s request, and was just hanging up when Gregory returned, an easy grin on his face.

“Gregory,” Mycroft began, and the questioning raised eyebrow made him pause. “I…you were going to kiss me.” The words were awkward in his mouth, and he watched Gregory apprehensively.

“Yes.” Gregory replied.

“Could we…I find the anticipation to be stressful.”

Before Mycroft could figure out how to phrase his request, Gregory uncrossed his arms and stood up from where he had been leaning against the doorframe.

“Kiss me, then,” said Gregory, slightly spreading his arms in invitation.

It was a challenge, but Mycroft could see the desire on his face; he wondered if Gregory had allowed it to show on purpose. He felt the dizziness peak and gripped the bench hard, taking a deep breath before moving.

As the distance between them closed, Mycroft locked his eyes on Gregory, his vision tunnelling to only the tanned face, patient and wanting. Gregory’s mouth was slightly open, and Mycroft found himself aiming for that tempting sliver of darkness between his lips. Three steps, two, one…

Stepping between Gregory’s feet, Mycroft brought his hands up, cupping Gregory’s face, tilting it upwards. The action made his jaw sag, parting his lips further, and Mycroft ducked, capturing Gregory’s mouth with intent. No gentle exploration here – if there was one thing that fuelled Mycroft’s determination, it was a challenge.

There was no question that Gregory wanted this, so Mycroft saw hesitance as a waste of energy. He wanted to kiss Gregory, wanted to taste him, and if he was honest, take the upper hand; he found himself kissing hard, pressing immediately for entry, licking into Gregory’s lips.

His boldness must have surprised Gregory, because there was a gasp, then a moan; hands clutched at Mycroft, spreading over his back as Gregory’s mouth tried to keep up. Once he had established the kiss Mycroft slowed it down, sliding fingers around to tangle in the hair at the base of Gregory’s neck, tilting for a deeper contact, pressing in to explore every part of Gregory’s mouth. When his tongue encountered Gregory’s, which tangled, stroking and playing, Mycroft pulled back with a gasp. He’d all but forgotten his nerves and the fire to prove himself after Gregory’s challenge. The heat and slickness, the taste ( _God, the taste of him_ ) – it had blanked Mycroft’s mind like nothing he’d experienced.

“Christ,” Gregory managed, hands still pressed to Mycroft’s back. “That was…not what I expected.” Mycroft stiffened, wondering if he had misinterpreted before Gregory reassured him. “No, no, of course ‘kiss me’ meant ‘kiss me’, I just didn’t realise you’d kiss me quite so…” he trailed off, voice becoming strained as he tried to describe it. “Wow. Just wow.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said. Now that the tension between them was resolved he was far more able to express himself. “Remarkable.” He dared to lean in again, brushing his lips against Gregory’s, smiling to himself when Gregory’s lips followed his backwards. “You are remarkable.”  

Gregory snorted. “I am?” His hands stroked long strokes up and down Mycroft’s back. “Where the hell did you learn to kiss like that?”

“I am not without experience, Gregory,” admitted Mycroft, his face warming, “though I might also say that you inspired me.”

Gregory opened his mouth to reply, but a knock at the door interrupted him.

Mycroft knew that if their visitor had been allowed to knock, they were not a threat; almost certainly their meal, then. He carefully untangled himself from Gregory, answering the door.

“That smells great,” Gregory told him, following Mycroft into the kitchen.

“I wish I could claim more credit than simply placing the order,” Mycroft remarked, opening containers and offering Gregory a plate. “Shall we eat in the theatre? I believe there is one more part to the trilogy.”

“Yep,” Gregory replied, piling his plate high. His face broke into a grin when he saw Mycroft had ordered Indian beer to go with the meal. “Great idea, Mycroft,” he said warmly. They each juggled their plate and beer into the theatre, Mycroft setting out tray tables so they could settle in.

“Part Three?” Gregory asked.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. His heart had calmed significantly since he and Gregory had kissed earlier, the anticipation melting away. He was looking forward to the rest of the evening, whatever it might bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Mycroft and Greg watch the first two Back to the Future movies.
> 
> * Doc Brown refers to "jigawatts" of electricity. 1.21 "jigawatts" is sometimes thought to be a mispronunciation of "gigawatts", but this is actually the official pronunciation of the prefix "giga" according to the U.S. National Institute of Standards and Technology. The error is actually in ‘one point twenty-one’ instead of ‘one point two one’.
> 
> * In case you didn’t know – Doctor Who is a Time Lord. In his reality, Time Agents (such as Captain Jack Harkness) use portable time travel devices called Vortex Manipulators.


	6. Chapter 6

As they settled in with their meals, Mycroft took only superficial notice of the beginning of the movie (was it a direct continuation from part two?). He had hoped that by kissing Gregory, it would increase his focus. Instead he was more aware than ever of the man currently sharing his sofa.

They were sitting closer than earlier, arms brushing as they ate. Mycroft had ordered their meals with medium heat, his own preference, and was relieved when Gregory did not appear disappointed. The beer was a good counterpoint to the warmth of their curries, and Mycroft made a mental note to order it with his next meal from Khusboo.

 _Perhaps Gregory will be here again,_ a small voice in his head whispered, and he shivered, fork pausing halfway to his mouth. Hoping the other man hadn’t noticed, Mycroft continued the path to his mouth. It was only when his lips closed over warm metal and not food he frowned. To his mortification, Mycroft looked down, feeling his eyes widen as they tracked the bright green trail now running down his white shirt. He flicked his eyes to Gregory, relieved to see him still focusing on the film.

“Need a napkin?” Gregory asked, handing one over without looking at Mycroft.

“Thank you,” said Mycroft, his cheeks warmer as he took the paper. What on earth would Gregory think of such poor manners? Unable even to feed himself without spilling it like a slattern?  He could tell at a glance the napkin would do nothing for the oily stain; already his white shirt was opaque in places.

Picking up the piece of chicken from the floor, Mycroft dropped it on his plate. “Excuse me, I’ll just…”

He placed the tray carefully on the side table and strode as briskly as possible from the room. Quick steps took him to the laundry tucked under the stairs; he knew there would be clean shirts hanging in the airing cupboard. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned the soiled shirt. His mind was racing, berating him for his lack of concentration. How could he go back and sit beside Gregory? Who even knew what was happening in the movie by now?

The tails of his shirt caught and he released his belt, knowing he’d need to tuck in the clean shirt. Mycroft’s movements were brusque and angry, though the trembling softened them somewhat. He let the shirt hang open as he turned to the airing cabinet.

“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice was quiet, yet it made Mycroft jump.

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed, instinctively clutching at the fabric, closing it over his torso. His earlier embarrassment faded into insignificance in comparison to this horrific indignity.

He saw Gregory’s eyes drop to the skin still visible at his neck. Reflexively Mycroft pulled the fabric closer, crossing his arms over his torso. He knew it was defensive, but it had an unintended consequence too. Gregory’s eyes lowered even further, and the change in expression told Mycroft all he needed to know. Wide eyes, hitched breath, an unconscious movement forwards. Attraction. Desire?

Mycroft’s brain shuddered to a halt. The two sets of data did not match up. How could he see those responses, knowing the stimulus was his repulsive body? The equation was wrong. Or the data. Were Mycroft’s observations faulty? He blinked, brain still offline as he scrambled for a strategy.

“Um, Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice broke through the panic.

Mycroft focussed, forcing his eyes to meet Gregory’s. They were locked on him, waiting for a response.

“Yes, Gregory.” Mycroft had swallowed hard before speaking, hearing his voice rumble. It was surprisingly steady considering the staccato of his heartbeat.

“I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

Gregory’s words were steady, and something in his tone of voice hit Mycroft low in his abdomen. He took a deep breath. “I need a clean shirt.” The words came from him without intent. He had no ulterior motive – it was simply a statement of fact, his contribution to the exchange. His brain was still not able to make plans, still stuck on the juxtaposition of two sets of data.

“Well,” said Gregory, his eyes still pinned to Mycroft, “we should do something about that.”

Mycroft was worried Gregory would step forward – he was still standing in the doorway, there would be no way around – but there was no movement.

“Is there a clean shirt in here somewhere?”

Mycroft nodded. He pointed to the airing cupboard, not trusting his voice.

Gregory opened it, pulling out a white shirt identical to the one Mycroft currently clutched to his body.

In response to Gregory’s raised eyebrows, Mycroft managed a strangled, “Yes.” He wondered if Gregory would insist on helping him out of his soiled shirt; surely there was no better excuse to further their physical exploration than this. Mycroft knew his eyes were wide as he waited to see what Gregory would do.

“I’ll leave it here for you, shall I?” Gregory murmured, hooking the shirt over the door handle. “I’ve paused the movie, take your time.” With a gentle smile he turned, vanishing from Mycroft’s sight.

It took a moment before he was able to move, arms still frozen as he processed what had just happened. Free to move. No pressure from Gregory. The relief flowed through him, freeing his arms, which sagged back to his side, fingers stiff after releasing their hold on his shirt. He moved slowly, as though Gregory might come back unannounced; when he didn’t, Mycroft stumbled hastily through taking off the soiled garment and replacing it with the clean.

Breathing a sigh of relief as the final button slid home, Mycroft closed his eyes a second. He had not known how that short encounter would unfold, an unusual position to find himself in. Once again, Gregory had surprised him. It would have been natural for an interested suitor to offer assistance – did that mean he wasn’t interested?

Before the disappointment could take hold, Mycroft erased it, bringing the evidence of their kiss to the front of his mind. Clearly, Gregory was interested. So, interested but not in a rush. An unusual combination, in Mycroft’s limited experience. Generally there was either a political angle or a cost-per-hour element involved, granted. Only once in his life had anything close to a natural, organic relationship evolved – and that had been an unmitigated disaster.

Mycroft felt his arms tighten once more across his middle in reaction to his memories. But Gregory was not the same – and neither was Mycroft. He wondered exactly how slowly Gregory would expect to take things. Glancing at his watch as he adjusted his cuffs, Mycroft had to note that it was barely 24 hours since he messaged Gregory; they were hardly setting land-speed records, having shared one kiss. Not that Mycroft had any idea how fast normal relationships moved. He sighed. This was more difficult than he had anticipated.

Mycroft scooped the shirt off the floor, dropping it in the hamper before taking a deep breath and forcing himself to walk back to the theatre. Gregory was waiting patiently – his meal was still in front of him, a new beer the only alteration.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want another beer,” he explained apologetically when Mycroft glanced at his own tray, half full bottle now slick with condensation.

“Thank you, I’m fine,” Mycroft replied. He was unlikely to finish the beer now. The stress of his slovenly behaviour has erased his appetite for both food and beer; he collected his plate and bottle. “Please, feel free to finish your meal.”

Before Gregory could reply he’d hastened back to the kitchen, depositing the ceramic and glass on the bench. Mycroft placed his palms on the cool marble, head dropping between his shoulders as he literally hung his head in shame. How was he supposed to behave now? What would Gregory think of him? The same thoughts spun around in his mind, no solutions rising to fight the whirlpool of nerves threatening to pull him down.

“Hey,” Gregory’s voice was behind him.

 _Startled, worried, uncertain,_ Mycroft registered. He ignored it for the moment, concentrating on breathing deeply to avoid hyperventilating. He could address his current humiliation at a later time.

“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice had moved. He was on the opposite side of the bench now, closer but not in Mycroft’s personal space. “I’m just going to sit here. I won’t come any closer unless you want me to.”

The scrape of a stool registered in Mycroft’s brain, though a new question had appeared and it demanded answering.

“Why would I want you to come closer?” he blurted without raising his head, not considering the potential for offending Gregory until he’d spoken. Gregory’s surprise was evident in the beats of silence before he spoke.

“Some people like to be held while they’re dealing with stuff,” he supplied finally, the phrasing awkward. When Mycroft didn’t reply, he went on, “A colleague of mine has a kid with autism. He has this weighted blanket, it helps him with his anxiety. Deep Pressure Therapy, she calls it. Sometimes when they don’t have the blanket, she had to hug him really tight instead. It does something to change his hormones, helps him calm down.”

When he stopped talking, Mycroft realised the sound had helped his breathing regulate. Feeling less like hyperventilation was a possibility, he risked looking up at Gregory.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think the man was waiting for a takeaway order. He looked relaxed, leaning back, hands folded over his stomach, eyes calm. A slight smile twitched as he met Mycroft’s eyes, but there was no judgement in it.

“And you thought…” Mycroft started, unable to find the words to finish his sentence.

Gregory shrugged. “I wasn’t sure.” He hesitated before adding, “I don’t know you well enough yet to know what you need when this happens.”

“And what exactly is happening?” Mycroft found himself asking. He could feel his eyebrow raising as he waited for Gregory to answer. He knew in his own mind what was happening, the words _panic attack,_ and _social anxiety_ flashing in his brain. _Freak, stuck-up_ , and _snob bastard_ followed closely, as they often did. He pushed them all away, focussing his attention instead on Gregory.

The silver head was tilted to one side now, as Gregory considered his answer. Mycroft was holding his breath; somehow this had turned into a very important moment. “I’m not entirely sure,” Gregory said finally, “but I suspect it’s something to do with your shirt.” One hand indicated Mycroft’s torso. “Not this one, the other one.”

Mycroft met his enquiring look and nodded once, imploring him to go on. It was far easier when Gregory said the words. _Please understand_ , Mycroft silently begged him.

“I dunno why, but I think you think I’d be less interested or something, because you dropped food on your shirt,” Gregory continued carefully. His tone was measured, eyes watching Mycroft for a reaction.

“And?” Mycroft prompted, the word squeezing out around the lump in his throat.

“And,” said Gregory, “I’m thinking you’re a bit self-conscious about being seen without your shirt on.”

“That would be fair,” replied Mycroft. The whole day had a bizarre feeling, but this was by far the most surreal moment. Was he really standing in his kitchen, having a conversation about his anxiety issues with Gregory Lestrade? Surely he would wake any moment, the Prime Minister on the phone begging for help with some stubborn Foreign Minister.

“Well then,” Gregory said. “We can go and watch the rest of the movie, which is pretty good, from what I’ve heard, or I have another idea.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “And what would that be?”

“I could show you how I reacted when I walked into the laundry earlier and saw you unbuttoning your shirt.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure if it was the words or the darkly wanting tone of voice that sent his heart into overdrive. Whatever it was, his own disbelief was swamped by desire and need, the awareness of Gregory’s voice rolling over his skin, sensitising every nerve. He opened his mouth, intending to speak, but nothing came out; feeling helpless, he closed it again.

Gregory watched him, his eyes patient, body language still relaxed. Mycroft was amazed he could still appear so at ease despite the thrumming air between them.

“I’m…it was good?” Mycroft internally winced at the imprecise word, cursing his lack of brain function. He watched the grin spread across Gregory’s face as he recalled the moment.

“You could say that,” the detective drawled. “Or I could show you and leave you to your deduction.” Standing up, Gregory stepped out from behind the bench. He was closer to Mycroft, though still further than arms’ reach and, Mycroft was secretly relieved to notice, not blocking his exit. When Mycroft looked up, Gregory said, “This is what happened.”

He shuffled back, then stepped forward as though about to enter a room, before pausing. From such a short distance, his expression was easy to see. Eyes widened, mouth opened as though to speak but left hanging as he saw something.

Mycroft watched him swallow hard, then say, “Mycroft?” The tone was exactly the same, the sound that had made him jump as he turned for the airing cupboard. The data was right there, and if he’d not known the stimulus, Mycroft would have had no doubt that Gregory had witnessed something highly arousing. His pupils were dilated, mouth hanging open, body swaying as though unconsciously moving closer to the target.

Gregory’s eyes moved lower, widening as they caught sight of something more. Gregory licked his lips. Had he done that earlier? Mycroft certainly had not noticed if he had.

It took all his willpower for Mycroft not to sneak a glance at Gregory’s groin, but if he did he suspected he would see further evidence of Gregory’s arousal.

“About now I realised I your belt was open,” Gregory said quietly. “There was a patch of skin above it. Your shirt had covered it until you changed your grip.”

A tactful way of saying he’d clutched it tighter around himself, Mycroft noted. His eyes were still watching Gregory carefully. To his shock, Gregory dropped one hand, adjusting himself inside his jeans; clearly the blood flow had changed things enough to make him uncomfortable.

Mycroft felt his own face flush at the idea, and he knew his face was betraying him as easily as Greg’s betrayed him.

“I’m not asking for anything,” Gregory said now, his voice quiet in the large kitchen. “Just wanted to point out that the idea of you taking off your shirt was enough to shrink my pants a few sizes.”

And there it was, Mycroft thought, a surge of hot bitterness leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Gregory must have seen his face change, because he asked, “What?”

“Reality doesn’t always live up to imagination, Gregory.”

“What do you think…Mycroft,” Gregory interrupted himself, “I think you’re a middle aged man, like me. Probably a bit softer around the middle than you’d like. I could tell you what I think you look like under your suits, but to be honest, it doesn’t even matter.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up so fast he wondered if he might have sprained one of them.

“I’m attracted to you, Mycroft. To you, the person. Whatever your body looks like, I’m going to like it because it houses _you_. It carries around that enormous brain, the sense of humour you try and hide, all the bits that you don’t want people to see. I don’t care if you’ve got more scars that you think you should have, or you’re covered with freckles – ha, I knew it, you’re a redhead with pale skin, of course there’s freckles – or your legs are too skinny.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened as Gregory listed four of his personal most despised features.  _How does he know?_

“I’m a detective, remember? You’ve got a desk job and you’re at least forty, of course your tummy’s gone a bit soft. Your tailors’ a genius, showing off those long legs, and I’ve seen you in the sun, it’s obvious you’re a natural redhead with the skin to match. Plus, given your ‘minor position in the British Government’, I’d bet my pension there’s a handful of scars you can’t tell me about scattered across your person.”

Gregory folded his arms, half smug, half annoyed. Mycroft was speechless. Was this how people felt, normal people, when he deduced them? It was staggering. He knew Gregory was good at his job, but just how much attention had he been paying to Mycroft, and for how long? Far more of both than Mycroft had been giving him credit for. He’d managed to weave together a comprehensive picture of Mycroft’s hang-ups from the surreptitious observations made over weeks, months…

“Wow,” Mycroft managed. He felt he needed to respond, but there was too much to address. “Thank you, Gregory.”

“You’re welcome.” Gregory’s lip twitched. “For what, exactly?”

Mycroft considered. Which was the most important part of Gregory’s impromptu speech? “For seeing me,” he replied finally. “You must have been looking for a while.”

“I have been,” Gregory confirmed. He didn’t move, hands now in his pockets, and Mycroft suddenly understood. Gregory was not going to make the first move, not today, perhaps not for a long time. It was an odd situation. As Mycroft understood relationships, the physical intimacy generally came before the revelation of emotional weaknesses. Not only had they done it backwards, he was none the wiser as to Gregory’s self-awareness.

“This is backwards,” Mycroft said, frowning. “However,” he hesitated, “early in my adult life, it had been brought to my attention that my physique was…less than desirable. I was younger at the time and held the speaker in high regard.” He cleared his throat, examining the edge of the bench to avoid Gregory’s eyes. “With no further feedback, I accepted the truth of his statements.”

“So one guy tells you, what, you’re ugly, and you believe him?” Gregory asked. Mycroft nodded, wincing at the rough summary. He could feel the anger radiating off Gregory and braced himself for the explosion. Instead, a steady voice sounded in his ears. “What if someone else had a different opinion?”

Mycroft blinked. Another unexpected moment. He looked up uncertainly. “A different opinion?”

“Yes,” Gregory bit out. “Attractiveness is subjective, Mycroft. What if I have a different opinion? Would that count as much as the other guy’s?”

“I had never considered it,” Mycroft replied honestly. The idea that Kevin had been wrong was unsettling, and one that had never crossed Mycroft’s mind. One data point was certainly too few to make a definitive statement, that was basic statistics. But if Kevin was wrong, and Gregory was right…

“Surely if the team for the negative has had their say,” Gregory said, his face serious, “I should be able to put forth a case for the affirmative.”

The teasing words were delivered in such a serious tone it took Mycroft a few moments to recognise them.

“I did not realise I was topic for debate,” Mycroft replied dryly.

“Neither did I,” Gregory replied. “But it seems my opinion is pretty different to that other guy’s, and I’d like a chance to state my case.”

Mycroft’s heart was pounding. Despite the light-hearted veneer of their conversation, the subtext was far more serious. Was Mycroft going to agree to let Gregory…what exactly was it he was thinking of doing, anyway? He would want to look, at least. The idea made him hot and cold all over. It was possible touch would be employed, perhaps even taste…

“Did you have specific evidence in mind?” Mycroft asked.

Gregory looked at him. “Nothing specific,” he replied, “except that I’d want to explore you all over.”

“Really?” Mycroft couldn’t keep the word from escaping. He heard the longing and astonishment in his tone and closed his eyes. Surely Gregory would be pitying him before five minutes had passed.

“Really,” Gregory’s voice came back, even and steady. “Do you think you’d be willing to give it a try?”

The tiny nod was all Mycroft could manage, and as he opened his eyes, the smile on Gregory’s face was wide and calm.

“The bedroom’s upstairs,” Mycroft said quietly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: recollections of unpleasant sexual experiences. Implication of verbal, physical and emotional abuse related to sexual activity; dubious consent. No flashbacks, just Mycroft making broad generalisations about his past experiences.

Mycroft led the way up the stairs, heart pounding, hyper-aware of Gregory following him. His mind had come up with dozens of suggestions in the few moments between the kitchen and the door to his bedroom, but he’d cast each away, fearing misplaced anticipation; as a result, a swirl of images, of skin and hands and mouths clouded his brain. Mycroft paused just inside the doorway, turning to look at Gregory, hoping his nervousness didn’t show. He was both apprehensive and expectant; the struggle between the two extremes distracted him so much he didn’t notice them enter his bedroom.

“Hey,” Gregory said, stepping closer, one hand caressing Mycroft’s face. He ducked his head a little to catch Mycroft’s eye. “Are you okay in there?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied automatically.

Gregory gave him a sceptical glance. “Really, gorgeous? Because none of this is compulsory, you know.” His thumb was rubbing over Mycroft’s cheekbone, distracting him from the veiled offer to bow out gracefully.

If only Gregory knew how Mycroft had yearned to be desirable; both in general and then a few years ago, by Gregory specifically.

“I am aware of that, thank you,” Mycroft told him. He hesitated. “It has been…a long time since I’ve…” he waved his hand, irritated at his ineloquence.

“Not a problem,” Gregory whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the opposite cheek, “just let me show you how it goes.” He pressed his lips to Mycroft’s cheek again, murmuring into the skin, “You let me know if there’s anything you’d rather not do, okay?”

Mycroft’s nod was clearly his cue to begin.

Gregory slid his hands along Mycroft’s waist, pulling him in close, bodies pressing lightly together as his lips met Mycroft’s. It was gentler than their last kiss, more careful and reassuring. Gregory’s tongue was caressing Mycroft’s mouth as though he was a precious artefact, a fragile being to be treasured. The tenderness of it – nothing like the fire of earlier or the faded perfunctory experiences in the back of his mind – made Mycroft shiver. There was nothing demanding, nothing to indicate that this was merely a preliminary exercise. As far as Mycroft knew, this could be all Gregory had planned. If that were the case, he thought dazedly, trying to keep up with Gregory’s incredible technique, it was fine with Mycroft.

Of course Gregory had more planned; it was only when he pressed closer, edging Mycroft backwards, that Mycroft surfaced from the endorphin fuelled semi-coma he’d been in. he stumbled a little, eyes still closed as Gregory directed them in the approximate direction of Mycroft’s bed.

Before he felt the mattress hit the back of his knees, Mycroft stopped, hands on Gregory’s shoulders, the pressure on his waist guiding him. When they’d both come to a complete halt, Gregory pulled reluctantly out of the kiss.

He smiled encouragingly through his own haze (half closed eyes, breathing heavily, slower blink responses, dilated pupils). Mycroft felt one of Gregory’s hands take his wrist, lowering his hand, fingers feeling for the button. He slid it out of the buttonhole, folding the cuff up once, pressing his mouth to the newly exposed skin. Mycroft imagined he could feel the pressure in his veins, the enormity of Gregory’s lips on the thin skin deforming the blood vessels ever so slightly. He felt Gregory’s tongue trace the pattern of blue-purple veins and gasped with the delicate touch. Without speaking, Gregory carefully let go of that hand and turned his attention to the other. Button opened, Mycroft’s other wrist received the same attention, the light wet touch of Gregory’s tongue making Mycroft’s eyes flutter as he inhaled, doing his best to control the desire now coursing through his body.

“I’d like to unbutton your shirt,” Gregory said, fingers running up and down Mycroft’s ribs, “if that’s alright with you.”

Mycroft appreciated the consideration; he wondered if this was the moment the magic began to disintegrate. Despite Gregory’s assurances, how could he gaze at Mycroft’s frankly disappointing physique with anything other than distain?

Locked in indecision, Mycroft raised his eyes to Gregory’s, which were now watching his face. He looking into Gregory’s eyes and wondered how much he trusted this man. It was rare that he could look at another man and answer that question with any sense of certainty; his was not a profession in which trustworthiness was as highly sought as it perhaps should be. This was not work. It was personal, and there had been countless examples of Gregory’s sincerity and trustworthiness over the years they had known each other. Mycroft was fairly sure that even if Gregory chose to leave the incident would not become the gossip of NSY or fodder for Gregory’s football team.

Against all the odds, Mycroft trusted Gregory.

With a deep breath (how long had Gregory been waiting?), Mycroft nodded, allowing some of his anxiety to show. He was permitting Gregory access to parts of himself others rarely, if ever, saw. Figuratively and literally, his mind supplied as Gregory’s hands drifted upwards, undoing buttons at glacial speed. Closing his eyes made it worse, or so he thought; opening them and watching was almost as bad. He could see the top of Gregory’s head, where he was kissing every centimetre in a line directly down the centre of Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft felt himself tense as Gregory approached his waistband, both from the implications of Gregory’s head so close to his groin and the knowledge that his stomach was embarrassingly soft. There was no change in Gregory’s attentions, and his hands tugged at the edges of Mycroft’s shirt, freeing the tails at the front, then the sides and back.

Straightening up, Gregory kissed Mycroft again, sliding his hands around under Mycroft’s shirt, caressing his back. Mycroft felt the groan as Gregory’s fingers traced long lines up and down; was it he or Gregory who had made the sound? Either way, the firm touch was good, drawing him closer again while leaving trails of fire along Mycroft’s skin. He’d never experienced this, the slow and gentle as well as his own physiological reaction to Gregory’s proximity.

Tentatively, Mycroft took a fistful of Gregory’s shirt, pulling it loose from the back of his trousers, sneaking his fingers up to touch the warm skin at the base of Gregory’s spine. The groan that erupted was definitely from Gregory; he pulled out of their kiss, panting, forehead pressed to Mycroft’s. Apparently just this touch was enough to elicit that glorious sound.

Mycroft swallowed, his fingers frozen until Gregory kissed him again, easing the cotton shirt from his shoulders, sending Mycroft’s heart into overdrive as the fabric hit the floor. He was shirtless now, with a determinedly curious Detective Inspector kissing him. As Mycroft wondered how he’d even gotten here, Gregory’s mouth shifted, trailing across to his ear.

“I’m going to explore, if that’s still okay with you,” he breathed, the warm air tickling at Mycroft’s ear.

He nodded fervently this time, eyes closed, swallowing hard as Gregory began with a solemn appreciation of his face. A gentle fingertip traced the shape of his eyebrows, his hairline, the length of his nose; feather-light kisses followed all over his face, ignoring the silent plea for more by Mycroft’s parted lips. Apparently, Gregory was determined to kiss as much of Mycroft as he possibly could. He kissed every part of his ear, tracing the shape with his tongue, scraping at the lobe with his teeth, sucking a kiss into the skin behind it. Gregory followed Mycroft’s hairline around behind him, hands sweeping restlessly over all the places yet to be discovered. The other ear had the same treatment, and Mycroft wondered how long this would take. Given the current rate of increase of his arousal, he wouldn’t last a terribly long time, which would be embarrassing and disappointing.

“Freckles,” Gregory was murmuring, kissing the constellations speckled across Mycroft’s shoulders. He followed one collarbone, crossing over the middle to the other, frowning at the scar. “Scar?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft told him, the concentration actually helping keep his mind off the agonisingly hard erection pressing against his pants, “fell out of a tree when I was thirteen. A plate and several screws to set the collarbone.”

Gregory nodded, moving on across Mycroft’s torso. He asked about every scar; some Mycroft could tell him about (appendix, chickenpox, removal of birthmark when he was two), others he could not (“National security, I’m afraid,”). Each was examined, kissed, touched gently as though it was important and not another ruinous example of his dangerous life.

As though he could read Mycroft’s mind, Gregory murmured, “Scars tell your story, Mycroft. They make  you, you. They’re special.” He looked up at this, smiling into Mycroft’s eyes. “Like you.”

Mycroft sent a disbelieving smile back, still amazed at the patience and reverence being shown. Gregory was not shy about showing his appreciation. Apart from the questions and comments, there was a steady stream of sighs and moans as Gregory nibbled and licked his skin. It was quite intimate, actually.

As Mycroft considered it, Gregory reached his waistband. After dropping kisses all around, dipping under the fabric at the back, Gregory stood up, taking Mycroft’s left arm. He followed the same careful process, admiring the freckles Mycroft hated so much, licking and kissing the patches of pale skin.

At his inner elbow Mycroft shivered, with a faint smile Gregory paused, paying it far more attention than he had any other area. It was torture of the most exquisite kind, and Mycroft was glad and disappointed when Gregory moved on down his arm. He pressed a kiss to the pad of each finger, and one to his palm.

“Ever been to palm reader?” Gregory asked. Mycroft snorted in reply. “Nah, didn’t think that would be your thing,” Gregory replied, chuckling. He traced the lines on Mycroft’s palm anyway, before closing the fingers over his kiss and turning his attention to Mycroft’s other arm. It was the same in a way – freckles, no scars, sensitive inner elbow – but the anticipation made it even sweeter. By the time he reached Mycroft’s hand, he was shaking, the need thrumming through him. “Always wondered what this was for,” Gregory said, running his finger over the right Mycroft wore.

“Family heirloom,” Mycroft replied succinctly. In reality it was more complex than that, but now was not the time to go into his family history.

Having finished the right hand, Mycroft was well aware that Gregory had now examined every centimentre of his exposed skin. Which left three options, his brain told him. They could stop; Gregory could go back over previous territory; or (Mycroft’s personal favourite and the one that terrified him the most) Gregory could expose more skin.

“Do you feel convinced?” Greogry asked, standing up once more and offering gentle yet clear proof of his own desire.

Mycroft felt Gregory’s erection press against his hip, hard and unambiguous. He looked up, watching Gregory’s face as he brought one hand up between their bodies, sliding his fingers up Gregory’s cock, feeling him twitch at the contact. His eyes widened, mouth falling open at Mycroft’s brazenness. Mycroft knew he groaned – he felt the rawness in his throat – but Gregory made noise too, the sounds combining in the humid air between them.

“Not entirely, no,” Mycroft said. He eased his hand out, settling it on Gregory’s hip instead, unsure if it was appropriate to leave it there when Gregory was more or less directing their course today.

“In that case, I think we ought to lie down,” Gregory said, leaning in to add, “I’d hate for you to hurt yourself when your knees give out.”

Mycroft swallowed hard and took two steps back, sitting down as he felt the mattress against the back of his legs. Gregory ushered him up and back until he was lying down, torso propped up on his elbows. He watched, fascinated and apprehensive as Gregory unbuttoned both their flies, removing trousers and socks without fanfare. Two pairs of pants were straining against two prominent erections. Irrefutable evidence that something was arousing him, Mycroft thought to himself.

“Roll over,” Gregory said, the words washing over Mycroft’s chest as he flicked his tongue at a nipple.

Mycroft scrambled to flip himself over, a shudder wracking him as Gregory’s hand smoothed down the length of his spine. “Less freckles here,” he murmured, bending to kiss the vertebra at the top of Mycroft’s neck. A hint of teeth scraping at the skin made Mycroft catch his breath and he held it until Gregory did the same thing one bone down, the breath released as a long quiet moan. The chuckle floated on Gregory’s exhalation, brushing over Mycroft’s skin as warm hands gently kneaded his shoulders, eventually slipping down to his shoulder blades as Gregory reached the curve of Mycroft’s lower back.

He stopped, kissing the dimples near the base of Mycroft’s spine; the deviation from the pattern brought Mycroft out of the flood of sensation he’d been floating on. His skin was singing where Gregory had kissed it, and now those same strong fingers were stroking every rib, over his kidneys, feeling for scars and other variations, Mycroft knew.

Mycroft wondered briefly what Gregory had in mind, but the few suggestions his brain made were so ridiculous he discarded them immediately. Surely, Gregory would complete his exploration then make Mycroft work for his reassurance; it was inconceivable to Mycroft that someone might derive pleasure from giving pleasure to others. His experience was so far removed from the scenario that the one half-hearted suggestion his mind had made was shot down immediately. Instead he carefully considered the ways in which Gregory might seek his own pleasure from Mycroft. What would he say to convince Mycroft to subjugate himself to Gregory’s desires?

“I haven’t got as far as your legs,” Gregory said quietly, fingers now exploring the shape of Mycroft’s hips from this new angle, “but I do have some ideas for the places under here.” He slid both hands down across Mycroft’s arse, still encased in the black pants he wore. “We could try one of those ideas now, or I could see what secrets these gorgeous long legs hold.”

In answer, Mycroft lifted his hips, tugging at his waistband with his thumbs, face burning as it pressed into the pillow, allowing Gregory to remove the past of his clothes. The slow meandering path down his spine had been a delicious tease, but there was no way he’d be able to survive it if Gregory began an odyssey down and up each of his legs. As humiliating as it was to be so eager, Mycroft was far more interested in Gregory’s plans for what was inside his pants, even if that meant Gregory taking his own pleasure and leaving Mycroft to ensure his own release. With the state of things right now, it wouldn’t take long, or much; Mycroft had never been more turned on in his whole life.

Gregory’s mouth latching onto the very base of his spine, where his body parted at the top of his buttocks, brought Mycroft back to the present. It was an open kiss, wet and messy and full of promise.

Mycroft felt his hips rise, offering up more; he pressed his face once again into the bedsheets, grateful Gregory could not look into his shame filled eyes. He clenched them closed, fighting to relax the rest of his muscles as Gregory teased lower, kissing across each buttock, jumping the crease until Mycroft was quietly whimpering with need, his knees wide, hips pulled up in silent begging.

This time, as Gregory’s mouth came closer, Mycroft felt his tongue caressing the hot skin, trailing closer and closer until it dipped into the tiny divot at the centre of Mycroft’s entrance. Gregory’s tongue pressed flat, and the shaking of his muscles must have resonated through to Gregory’s face because his hands stroked at Mycroft’s side as he asked hoarsely, “Alright?”

No words were possible, not that they’d be audible with his face pressed into the pillow anyway; Mycroft gave into the shame of his need and brought his hand around, spreading his buttocks wider, sliding his knees up to allow Gregory better access.

The moan Gregory gave before he dived back in made it clear the message had been received. Mycroft drifted back off on a sea of sensation borne by hot deep breaths, measured and desperate at once. He made himself focus on his breathing, knowing hyperventilation was a very real possibility, and hoping to stave off an embarrassingly quick orgasm. As it was, Gregory’s tongue was bringing him breathtakingly closer with every moment. It was wet and dirty and Gregory was patient, pressing in with his tongue, working gently with Mycroft’s muscles to relax him, to allow Gregory’s tongue to slide in, the few millimetres of hypersensitive skin feeling like a vast field of nerves, each being caressed to maximum arousal. He began to shake, certain a steady drip of pre-come was pooling under him, his body more than ready to burst with the overwhelming desire coursing through him.

Just as Mycroft thought he could take no more, Gregory’s mouth broke from his body, and Mycroft gasped in frustration. The moment was short lived as he felt a wider, blunter pressure at the centre of the relaxed muscle; it was tentative, but Mycroft was having none of it. He thrust his hips back, drawing the finger into his body, the wet skin and softened muscle allowing it to slide inside him without a problem. His groan was loud and raw, and Mycroft felt the finger go deep into his body; the knuckles of Gregory’s other fingers brushed his skin, and suddenly, everything went white.

Mycroft had no memory from that moment until he was lying on his front, an uncomfortably wet patch under his stomach, mouth dry, throat raw, eyes staring unseeingly as his lungs drew in ragged breaths.

“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice was gentle, and it took all his energy to turn towards the sound. He didn’t try and speak; what would he say, even if he was able to form words? Mycroft’s mind was completely offline, suspended in a perfect pool of bliss, wet patch notwithstanding.

“Roll over, let’s clean you up,” the voice came again, this time with helpful hands to help him actualise the suggestion. For the first time in his adult life Mycroft did not care that someone else was seeing his body; he had too much to process before he could worry. Besides, the hands caressing him were gentle, cleaning his skin where the mess had begun to stick.

Mycroft allowed his eyes to close, enjoying the oddly intimate moment before Gregory inevitably expected reciprocation. He’d been more selfless than Mycroft had thought; the juxtaposition between what he would expect Gregory to be like and his own experience guiding his expectations was jarring. If he’d been asked, he would have guessed Gregory exactly as he was – gentle, considerate, quietly humorous. In Mycroft’s head, though, lovers (especially those with the misfortune of finding themselves in bed with him) were selfish and cruel, giving pleasure only when the strings were clear to see. He expected to be submissive, and in his meagre experience, one sided pleasure was only given when the payoff was to be bigger in return.

His heart, only just slowing down after his nirvana, began to speed up as he considered what Gregory would expect in return. Surely he would have realised how inexperienced Mycroft was with anal play? He might want Mycroft to bottom, then. The idea in itself was not unappealing, except that he knew preparation and patience were required for it to be comfortable for him.

“Hey, what’s going on in there?” Gregory asked, returning from the bathroom where he’d left the soiled flannel. He smiled, turning down the side of the bed with soiled blanket, lying down on the sheet instead. He grinned at Mycroft, leaning in for a kiss. “I’ve brushed my teeth,” he said when Mycroft hesitated.

“What did you have in mind now?” Mycroft asked, careful to use neutral language and inflection.

Gregory frowned. “It’s getting late-ish, and I’m bushed, to be honest.” He looked over at Mycroft. “Few hours’ sleep wouldn’t hurt, then we could wake up and do it again.” With another grin, he said, “I never made it to your legs. Or a lot of the other things on my list.”

Mycroft blinked, confused. “You want to sleep?”

“I’m not young enough for an all-nighter anymore, as amazing as the sex would be. We’ll have to wait a bit to go again.”

“But you didn’t…” Mycroft trailed off, confusion and embarrassment in his voice.

Gregory chuckled, and to Mycroft’s astonishment, blushed a little. “You really don’t have any idea how fucking hot you are, do you? I couldn’t help myself, rutting like a teenager.” When Mycroft felt the frown still on his face, Gregory clarified, “I came all over your knees, Mycroft.”

“Oh,” Mycroft managed. His head was still a swirl of confusion, but he could see the affection on Gregory’s face. “I should brush my teeth,” he said, slipping out of bed and into his pyjamas. Pausing, Mycroft took a spare set of sheets from the linen cupboard and dropped them on the end of the bed, intending to change the sheets when he returned. Brushing his teeth was an excuse; Mycroft needed to process the last few moments of conversation before he could relax into sleep.

Well then. Facts.

Gregory had intentionally made Mycroft the focus of his attention. As far as Mycroft could tell, he made no effort to pleasure himself until Mycroft was satisfied; even then, Mycroft was not expected to contribute to his orgasm.

If what Gregory had said was true, he must have been exceptionally aroused by his attention to Mycroft. Looking back over his recollections, shunting away the shame at his wanton desire, Mycroft could find no evidence that Gregory was not aroused by their activities.

Gregory had made no demands on Mycroft. No derogatory comments about his behaviour, the speed or volume of his orgasm. Nothing to imply that he was anything but an equal partner.

He’d cleaned up then returned to Mycroft, stating clearly that he wanted to have more sex. The implication was strong that he was extremely satisfied with the sex they had already had.

And now he wanted to sleep.

Mycroft brushed his teeth on autopilot, considering all the facts, his knowledge of Gregory as a person, and could come to only one conclusion.

Gregory was sincere. As unlikely as it may seem, he was aroused by Mycroft, bore no expectations about their future sexual interactions and was concerned about his wellbeing and sexual satisfaction.

Good grief. Mycroft had no idea how to deal with it. Give me a self-centred manipulator any time, he thought to himself. Not this genuine, good-hearted man. How on earth will I prevent myself from breaking his heart?


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft drew out his ablutions as long as he dared. When he could stave off the inevitable no longer, he squared his shoulders and stepped back into the bedroom.

Gregory was gone.

Mouth agape, Mycroft looked around. Before he could do more than a cursory visual sweep, Gregory walked back in, still wearing only his pants. His erection had wilted somewhat, though his cock was not entirely soft, as far as Mycroft could see.

He smiled at Mycroft, then frowned. “What’s up, gorgeous?” Gregory asked. When Mycroft didn’t speak, he added, “I just changed the sheets. Threw the other ones downstairs in the laundry, hope that’s okay.”

Mycroft nodded mutely. When Gregory started to look concerned, he cleared his throat and said carefully, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Gregory cautiously. He smiled again at Mycroft as though waiting for a punchline. When none came, he stepped a little closer. “Bed?” he asked.

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed. Though he was not necessarily sleepy, there were a lot of things to consider and if Gregory slept, he would have plenty of time to order his thoughts before the morrow.

Gregory was still looking at him strangely as they climbed into bed. He settled comfortably in the gentle bedside light.

Mycroft had no idea what to do. Would he be expected to sleep wrapped up in Gregory’s arms? As nice as that sounded for short periods, the idea of being so close to someone for the whole night was a little claustrophobic.

“I’m a bit of a starfish,” Gregory said apologetically, as though reading Mycroft’s thoughts. Automatically, Mycroft nodded as if he knew what that meant. Perhaps his confusion was evident, because Gregory continued, “I’ll do my best not to crowd you, but shove me over if you end up with no real estate, okay?” Another nod, and Gregory shifted over to press a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s temple. “Do you want a hug?”

Mycroft hesitated. ‘Hug’ implied short term, but what if Gregory actually meant ‘all night’? The sudden overwhelming despair of having no idea what he was doing crashed over Mycroft. A familiar creeping pressure began to sweep up the back of his neck, and he closed his eyes, frantically hoping to stave off his intrinsic reaction. Gritting his teeth, Mycroft breathed deeply, shoving at the weight inexorably settling on his rib cage. He began to shake, his logical brain rolling its figurative eyes at the timing of this panic attack.

“Mycroft?” Gregory asked as he curled into a ball, squeezing eyes shut, desperately hoping not to fall off the edge of consciousness while his brain failed to cope with such basic relationship conferences.

This was far worse than the mild event in the kitchen; he was fighting a losing battle this time. _Why on earth will Gregory wish to stay after such a display?_ The thought swirled in his head, spreading and filling his mind with its poison.

“Mycroft.” Gregory’s voice was no longer asking, but commanding attention.

Through his breathing Mycroft turned his head fractionally towards the sound; it was all he could do.

“What do you need?”

Mycroft wanted to smirk at the question. He had no idea what he needed. His panic attacks had always been a solitary experience; there was nothing for it but to ride out the terrible episode and hope in vain it never happened again. Which it always did. Alarmingly, Mycroft felt himself begin to float away like an untethered balloon, reality fading as his consciousness blacked out at the edges, leaving only his breathing and pain. Oh no, no, no…

“I’m not going to touch you,” Gregory’s voice came again. Mycroft was relieved; how did he know? “You didn’t really like the idea of Deep Pressure Therapy so I’m assuming that’s a no. I’m not going anywhere though, gorgeous. You need someone here.”

As Gregory continued to speak, soothing nonsense, reassurances that he wouldn’t leave, Mycroft made a curious observation. He was no longer floating away; the sound of Gregory’s voice was grounding him, giving him something to grab hold of. It was similar to the kitchen, he realised as his mind began to clear a little. It was Gregory’s voice.

“Talk to me,” Mycroft managed to gasp.

There was a startled silence, then Gregory continued his monologue without the periodic silences in which he had obviously been wondering else what to do. Mycroft closed his eyes, splitting his concentration between the low deep tones of Gregory’s voice and the soft susurrus of his breathing. When the breathing required less effort to regulate, more and more of his mind could focus on Gregory. The cadence and volume had not changed, it was only that Mycroft could now process the words. His body felt heavy, and the weight compressing his lungs was not entirely gone, but his mind was clearer, allowing space for Gregory’s words to touch his consciousness.

“…couldn’t believe it when you messaged me yesterday. I mean, I always figured you’d have plenty of things to do, to occupy that mind of yours. Why would you want to spend it with me? I was sitting on the sofa, drinking warm beer ‘cause my fridge is on the fritz again, watching a match I’d already heard the result for. Then all of a sudden I was meant to be finding something to do with you.”

The slight chuckle sent a wash of soothing calm over Mycroft, and he sighed, a shuddering sound in the quiet air. Gregory paused, then continued.

“So glad I remembered that bit about the watches. _Grand-pere_ always talks to me about them, but I don’t have the right kind of brain for it. And I’ve heard all his best stories too many times to be impressed anymore.” Mycroft’s eyes were still closed – though not clenched so tightly now – and he imagined he could hear the smile in Gregory’s voice as he recalled their morning. “He had a wonderful time, I should be thanking you for that. I’d say you don’t have to go and see him again, but I know he’d love it and judging by how involved you looked, well, I’m guessing you’d be up for another afternoon of obscure watch talk.” Curious, Mycroft made a small interrogatory sound, hoping Gregory would understand. His breathing was normal now, and he shifted a little, stretching his tight muscles.

“You looked, well, gorgeous,” Gregory answered Mycroft’s unvoiced question. “Eyes lit up like a kid seeing their birthday cake when he mentioned Patek Phillipe. That was when I knew I’d made the right decision. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, in case you didn’t notice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so animated.” His chuckle this time was different, darker and with a wry twist. “Recent events aside, of course.”

He fell silent, and Mycroft knew Gregory could tell the critical moment had passed. Even with his limited experience, he knew the next action was his to make. Politics did have its benefits, and he was an expert at conversational nuance. Opening his eyes slowly, Mycroft looked in the direction of Gregory’s voice. He was sitting against the headboard, watching Mycroft. His tanned skin looked even more golden in the light of the bedside lamp.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Anytime,” Gregory replied with a little flourish. “Does that happen often, then?”

“Statistically, no. Two events in one evening is unprecedented,” Mycroft replied carefully.

“Hope that wasn’t my influence,” Gregory said, and there was a serious question behind the light tone.

“Possibly,” Mycroft said, following up hastily, “However I would say that your presence has greatly helped, overall.” He hesitated, looking away as he admitted, “More the situation in general, I think. I have…very little experience with relationships.”

When Gregory didn’t reply, Mycroft considered his response. Most people would make an awkward comment and implement their emergency exit strategy. In this situation, he felt the patience radiating from Gregory, instead. He was waiting. Allowing Mycoft time to…do whatever it was he needed. The lack of pressure was novel – usually both parties in a conversation were pushing some agenda, eagerly looking for the moment in which they could champion their cause. It was rare indeed that someone just…sat.

Impulsively, Mycroft scooted backwards, pressing Gregory’s ankles until they parted, allowing him to sit in the vee between his legs. He settled tentatively against Gregory’s chest until hands rested on his hips – still not pushing, Mycroft marvelled, pulling the hands across his chest and covering them with his own.

“Anthea stole my work mobile on Friday.”

Mycroft had no idea why he told Gregory that, but now that it was out there, he felt words spill forth, admitting his astonishment that he’d even contacted Gregory; that Gregory had remembered such a detail about Mycroft and crafted their morning around it; that they had ended up here. A stuttering outline of the reaction to his heavier body at the single summer public swim he’d attended as an undergraduate. Strictly speaking, the outing had been a success; he’d caught the attention of Leighton Prouse. Unfortunately Prouse had lead the group in ridiculing Mycroft to such an extent he’d vowed never to reveal his disgusting body again.

“Oh, gorgeous,” Gregory breathed.

Mycroft squeezed his hands, his mouth not stopping, to his surprise. He spoke of his loneliness, the relentless strictures of his diet and the despair as his stomach remained stubbornly soft. It was easier to speak when he did not have to look at Gregory; the security of his embrace was enough, as well as the knowledge that not only had Gregory witnessed one of his greatest weaknesses – the panic attacks – but had been sympathetic and considerate. And, of course, he was still there, listening as Mycroft poured out his heart. The dam he had erected against his innermost thoughts had well and truly burst, and Mycroft found himself laid bare before this most remarkable of men.

When he trailed off, exhausted from the effort of speaking for so long, Mycroft felt odd. His limbs were heavy, but his heart felt lighter; he was exhausted but exhilarated, as though setting free his thoughts and fears had empowered him, releasing him from the bonds he’d inadvertently tied himself with.

“Well,” Gregory said finally, tightening his arms minutely against Mycroft, “I have no idea where to begin.” A frisson of fear began to fizzle at Mycroft’s spine before Gregory continued, “So I suggest we sleep for a while and talk again tomorrow.”

Mycroft smiled, leaning his head back against Gregory’s shoulder. “An excellent plan.” He was tired, mentally and physically. Sleep would be welcome.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” Gregory murmured, his breath tickling Mycroft’s ear. “Can I assume you’ve taken my opinion into account, then?”

“I believe I have, Gregory,” Mycroft said. Even his ugliest secrets hadn’t driven Gregory away, so perhaps there was a flicker of hope for them after all. Mycroft smiled to himself as they settled themselves in the middle of the bed. Tomorrow was a new day, and for the first time in a long time, Mycroft was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and we're done! I wanted to get Mycroft to a point where his mindset about his body started to change, and I think Gregory did a good job of getting him there (pun totally intended).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story, it was fun to write! Drop me a line and let me know what your favourite part was. <3


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